


Welcome to Carogne

by icarus_chained



Category: Original Work
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Past, Disability, Discrimination, Fantasy, Friendship, Gangsters, Gen, Organized Crime, Original Fiction, Police, Politics, Talking Animals, Threats, Urban Fantasy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 06:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Carogne, the City of Rats, freedom, safety and friendship are very tenuous things, especially for blind rat doctors living on the edges of the various power blocks. Sebastien, who has been playing a game of favours for most of his life, knows that better than most. But still, in the past few weeks life has become more tenuous than even he is used to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three Rooms

**Author's Note:**

> This one isn't stand-alone, this one is an entire universe of mine. But I'm putting up these six interlinked pieces as an introduction to the main cast, particularly Sebastien, and a brief introduction to the city of Carogne itself.
> 
> The first chapter, 'Three Rooms', is a prologue set some years before the rest of the story.

Sebastien felt the edges of his new shop, prowled bare rooms, sniffing in damp and mold. Sounding the space of it. Testing the safety of it. This new home. Or at least ... Well. Somewhere to stay, yes? For now. The rest ... the rest we will see.

It wasn't much. This space. Tchu. Not much at all. To be expected, though. No? To be expected. He had not been paid, these last few years. Hah! No need, little _mischling_. No need. Do you not have a home under my roof? Will I not feed you, and clothe you, and keep you safe? What need have you for money, little doctor? What need have you for anything, when you live by my largesse?

He shuddered. Put those thoughts, that voice, away. Or as far away as it went, as he could make it go. Not far. Never far enough. He felt phantom paws in his fur. Felt the pressure at the base of his neck. The threat, the hold. He felt that, even still.

He wondered, here, in a fit of rare optimism, how long it would take to fade. How long before the phantom fingers, the phantom voice, faded away.

Too long. Too long. But that was not for now. That was not for this.

This space, it was not much. Three rooms. Perhaps, later, the possibility of more. The floor above. If he could make it work. If he could find a thing worth selling. But for now, three rooms. A storefront. A workspace, in the middle, perhaps, one day, a lab or surgery. And behind, a backroom. For now, a place to sleep. For now, his place to stay.

Not much. It was difficult to buy a place in a city at war, in a quarter so far from those he had frequented in his service to the Families. To ... to the General. Stolen money, hoarded money, did not go far at all, when so few were willing to sell. Here, where people looked at him, not with pity or fear, but with hate. Here, where the families of his victims lived. Where the brothers and mothers and sons of those the General had brought to him and had him break lived, and worked, and whispered their suspicions so close behind his back. This was Wekha territory. And the Wekha had been the General's enemies. 

But that ... that was the point. Never again. Never more would he serve the Families, never again be the General's thing. So. Among his enemies. Among the Wekha. Death, fear, we will take this, yes? The other? No more. Never again.

This was yet doable. This was yet workable. He had ... a friend or two. An _acquaintance_ , rather. Enough to bargain. Enough to weasel away three rooms, one a store, opening to the street. Enough for that.

The rest ... A saleable thing. A service to offer. The apothecary first, he thought. Easier. He had contacts, still. Purveyors, sellers, sources. His little network, paid for in General's gold. Because the General had wanted him to have the best tools, no? The best potions, the best poisons, the best salves. To keep someone on the brink the longest. To bring them back, and back, until they were used up, until they were done. Do this for me, the General said. No monies for food, none for wear. But gold for poisons, yes. Gold for that.

And a bargain, here or there. A deal, a contact, a whisper in the right ear, so this will be that little cheaper, so we may have also a little of that, free of charge. Enough to skim. That little bit of gold off the top, that sliver, here or there. Over years. Better as they passed. Sebastien, he was _good_ at favours, yes? Tchu. Good at deals, and trades, and a favour here or there. Enough to build ... not a fortune. Not that. But enough for freedom, and that was more fortune than any other.

And now ... Now, he had a place. Far enough from the remains of the General's ilk, from the rebuilding of their power, to hold himself free that little longer. To keep himself, not safe, but _away_. To keep from the touch of phantom paws against his neck, and the whisper of an ugly voice against his ear.

Apothecary first, he thought. No more than that, at first. They wouldn't not trust him yet for more than that. Trust a torturer for a doctor? Hah! Not to be foolish, yes? Not to be stupid. But a potion, here or there. A salve, a tincture. Something to ease the throat, to soothe the belly, to dress the wound. To stir the loins. Little things. Always, to start with, little things. Then, later, when there is some trust, when there is less fear ... perhaps more. Perhaps ... perhaps he might be a doctor again. Perhaps he might be what he had been, before ...

Before the General, and little favours, and screaming in the dark, and crying sobs beneath his paws that begged him, please, please, stop this, let me go, please _stop_. Before poisons, and knives, and guards, and _mischling_. Before ... before that.

Not yet. Never yet. Too big a thing. Not for now.

But later. Later. He could have hope for that, he thought. In this new place. In this small hole, these three rooms, from which he might make a shop. In this place, he could hope for later.

Three rooms. It was a start. And Sebastien, he could do a _lot_ , with the right start.

Yes. Yes, he thought so. Yes. This was enough. 

This was ... good.


	2. Polizei Raid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some years after 'Three Rooms', Sebastien has made something of a life for himself.

The streets were quite, the stillness of prey in the aftermath of the hunt. In the recesses of his apothecary, Sebastien's sensitive ears detected the first tentative sounds of an intruder from the hollow silence of what had once been the entrance. Head swivelling rapidly towards the sounds as they gained courage and urgency, he set his tincture down with shaking paws, and gathered his cane rapidly to hand. Too soon. It was much too soon after the Polizei raid for a repeat performance, and the Wekha would wait until they were sure there were no lingering spies. It was too soon for any of the city's powers to come after him. But Sebastien had not survived as long as he had by counting on such things.

"Sebastien!" a voice cried, climbing over the counter to the back rooms, the fragile sounds of crunching glass echoing in the oppressive silence, and Sebastien relaxed a little, lowering his cane. Polizei, yes, but only Jan. A friend, who would be concerned for him. That was all.

"I am here!" he called, standing carefully, a hand resting on the guiding curve of the work counter, still upright only because it was laid back into the walls, and therefore nigh on immovable. Unlike Sebastien himself, unfortunately, and beneath his fur he knew he was showing plentiful signs of it. Ah well.

"Sebastien!" Jan exclaimed, having reached the workshop, panic and concern clear in his voice. Sebastien smiled slightly, angling himself towards the voice, directing sightless eyes towards his friend in courtesy. "Crawling night, Sebastien! What happened?" And suddenly there were paws on his shoulders, the warm bulk of his friend tangible before him, the grip gentle and fearful. Sebastien smiled again, partly to hide his wince, and reached up to grip one of those paws reassuringly.

"Nothing, Jan," he answered soothingly. "Only a raid. I was probably about due, anyway, though I have made sure to pay."

"What!" the younger rat cried, offense and fear in his voice. "Polizei did this?!" Jan was Polizei himself, after all, and it was understood that friends of Polizei were not to be raided. To have a friend raided despite that must have been a shock. But Jan was only junior yet, with little influence, at least in that quarter. His friendship was actually more of a deterrent to those on the other side of the divide, the Wekha. A mehwet, a crime family, as prestigious as Jan's had that effect, for all that the boy himself had taken a turn for the enemy. Childish indiscretion was allowed, to a point.

"It is no matter," Sebastien assured, wondering a little at the naivete of his friend. Raids were commonplace, and no-one was really exempt. Least of all him, whose allegiance was so uncertain. Exactly as he intended it to be, but that uncertainty had its prices. Still. None that he could not afford to pay. "Come. Help me to the door, and think nothing of it, my friend."

"But ..." Jan stammered. "Your shop. Your things. They're ... they're all broken!" Said as if Sebastien didn't know, as if quite a number of them hadn't been broken by the impact of Sebastien's own body. He shook his head, repressing a sigh. There were times when Jan, well-meant as he was, seemed to equate Sebastien's blindness with stupidity, or helplessness, or both.

Annoying as it was, though, Sebastien hoped they were never placed in such a position that he had to reveal to the boy the depth of his mistake.

"It is being taken care of," he said, simply. It was. Jan was not his only friend, after all. Only the dearest. "Do not worry yourself, Jan. Trust me." And, as always, that simple injunction silenced any protest. It was positively frightening, the power those words had over the young rat. One of these days, that trust was going to get the boy in a great deal of trouble. If it hadn't already.

He held out an arm for Jan to hold, to direct him through the wreckage, but for once the boy managed to surprise him, as suddenly he found himself being scooped aloft, held easily in Jan's mammoth arms. He squawked, in pain and shock and annoyance, and Jan had the absolute effrontery to laugh at him. Spluttering, Sebastien scowled, demanding harshly to be set down at once.

"Sorry," Jan answered softly, though cheerfully. "There's too much glass and splinters, Sebastien. You'd shred your paws trying to cross it, when you can't watch your step. Trust me. It'll be easier this way."

Trust me. Well hell.

"You drop me, and there will be trouble," he allowed, huffing. "And be sure to put me down before we hit the street! I'll not be seen like this!"

"Of course not!" Jan answered, and he was definitely laughing now, though Sebastien would have bet good money, or a service of your choice, that none of it showed in the young rat's face. Jan may be the most innocent young man to be found in Carogne's terminally corrupt streets, but he could deadpan like nobody else.

"Hmpf! Oaf," he grumbled, and set about hiding his various pains as Jan picked his way laboriously through the remains of his shop. Delicacy was not exactly Jan's strong point, and Sebastien's highly bruised frame did not appreciate the lack. Most emphatically did not appreciate it. Thankfully, Jan was too busy minding where he put his own paws to notice Sebastien's badly disguised wincing. Though he did notice the earsplitting yelp when he stood on Sebastien's trailing tail. People two streets away probably heard that one. Apologising profusely, so very obviously not laughing that Sebastien was tempted to hit him, Jan set him carefully down in the door of his apothecary, and blithely stepped aside to let him out.

"Need a hand down the street, Sebastien?" he asked, cheerfully, and Sebastien gave in to his baser urges for a moment. Jan followed him as he set off, and the limp was audible in the young rat's stride, causing Sebastien to smile smugly to himself. Really, it was the simple pleasures that gave life its meaning.


	3. Two Meetings: Sorka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jan is not the only 'friend' Sebastien has, and he is _far_ from the most dangerous.

"You want me to ... to _surrender_ to Mamma Markos? To Docklands Molly?" She said it very slowly, as if she couldn't actually believe what was coming out of her mouth.

Sebastien shook his head very quickly. "Not surrender, no!" Never that, not when rumours of what Sorka had done to the last person to tell her to back down were still circulating. After four years.

"Then what?" she purred, coming to stand over him, legs akimbo, so he could feel her looming, feel her threat. Sorka had gotten rather good at conveying threat to him, who couldn't see a lot of her more artistic gestures. Sebastien swallowed. Hard.

"You know," he started. "You know I would never interfere in your business, Sorka. Not ever. Isn't it true? Haven't I always let you do as you pleased?"

" _Let?_ " And, oh, but how soft and very dangerous her tone. It took every meager scrap of his courage to stand straight under that question.

"Let," he confirmed, softly.

She was silent for a long moment, as if startled, or considering. Then ... "You would threaten me?" she asked, and there was no mischief at all in the question, none of her usual cruel games. Only quiet, deadly seriousness. He quivered a little, head turning to follow as she stalked around him, feeling the hairs down his spine stir in terror. He said nothing, waiting until she came back around to the front of him, waiting until she had stopped her pace and pinned him beneath the weight of her gaze, a weight he could feel if not see.

"You know me better than that," he whispered, dipping his head like a supplicant. "You know me, and I know you. Do you really think I'd be stupid enough, Sorka?"

"I don't know," she answered, honestly, and Sebastien started. Badly. "I don't know, little rat. You are a strange creature, with strange habits. I don't know what you would do, given ... incentive."

Oh, now that just made him angry. Foolish, perhaps, but it did. "Incentive?" he spat. "Sorka, you know better! Our first meeting should have shown you that, if nothing else!"

She laughed at him, for that. Warm and cynical. "Don't be naive!" she cried. "Silly rat. You showed me you were dangerous, yes. Nothing more." She paused, reaching forward to stroke his ear contemplatively, ignoring his little shudder. "Very dangerous, maybe. Enough to threaten, really threaten. Perhaps. If you felt the need?" And what he smelled in the air at that moment ... was arousal.

He stilled, now genuinely terrified, turning blind eyes to face her. It did nothing for him, actually hindered his hearing a little, but it was important for seeing creatures. To think that he looked them in the eye, to think that he was being 'honest'. It had taken him quite a while to realise that.

"Sorka ..." he stumbled, started again. "Sorka. I would not threaten you. Tchu! I'm not so stupid! Never that stupid!" She was circling him again, and he turned after her, his tail curling up and in defensively. "Sorka. You know me better than that! You know Sebastien is not so foolish ... eep!"

She grabbed him, pulled him into her, trapping his paws against her body, inhaling his scent, rubbing her blunt nose over his head and pressing on his eyes. He squeaked, going still very, very quickly, shaking in fear. She laughed at that, warm and leathery, and licked at the socket of his malformed eye, teasing the edge of his eyelid and the ruin beneath. He almost tried to jerk away, the sensation so coldly unfamiliar, so invasive, but her hard hands stilled him.

"No," she murmured, licking his eyes. "No, you are not so foolish. You don't threaten, do you, little rat? Like those Polizei idiots, yes? You don't threaten. Just kill, eh? When pushed. Just kill, quiet, efficient." She grinned against his face, so he could feel it, feel the teeth peeking between her lips. "Would you kill me, little rat? If I defied you? Hurt this little Molly and her precious grandson?" He froze under her hands, and she pulled back a touch with a vicious, cold laugh. "Oh, little rat! Of course I know it's him. Jan Markos. Your friend, little rat! Your little Polizei friend, the little traitor. You know, there's quite the bounty on him. Unofficially, of course. Only Mamma Markos to stop it being official, too."

"Sorka," he whispered, and for once he was seizing her, grabbing the lapels of her leather waistcoat and pulling her back towards him as she sneered. "Sorka, you don't touch him. You _don't!_ "

She laughed again. "Why? You think Docklands Molly not enough to protect him?"

Actually, Sebastien would bet on Molly Markos against almost anyone, himself very much included, but this was _Sorka_ , and he knew Sorka, knew her so very well, and if anyone, anyone at all, could take Docklands Molly down, it was her. It was her. And if Molly fell, the only thing protecting Jan from the full force of Wekha displeasure was removed, and Sorka was free to take that bounty from the families themselves, and cement her reputation.

"Don't," he said. Nothing else. Because it was Sorka, and pleas affected her not at all.

"You know," she murmured, pressing her mouth against his ear, nuzzling against him. "Anyone else, I wouldn't answer that. Anyone else, I'd kill them, just for saying it. You know that?"

He nodded. He knew.

"Sometimes I wonder," she went on. "Why I let you say the things you say. Why I let you do the things you do. Do you know, Sebastien?" And it was a genuine question, a genuine request for an answer. She didn't know herself. Sometimes she never did. Sorka lived for reasons even she didn't always understand.

"I don't," he whispered, softly, catching her hands in his paws, almost shaking at the feel of them, the roughness of the upper scales, the soft vulnerability of the palms. "I don't know, Sorka."

She grinned, and bit his ear, gently. "Would you kill me?" she wondered. "If you had me at your mercy? If I was bleeding and broken at your feet? Little doctor rat. Would you kill me?" He didn't know. He honestly didn't. And then she pulled back a little, serious and soft and asked: "Or would you ... find another use for me? Little injured Sorka?"

That, he _did_ know. "No!" he cried, pulling back, repulsed and horrified. "No! I would not ... I would _never_ ..." And then she was pulling him back, laughing again, all seriousness gone as she kissed him and bit his ear, licked his eyes and buried her hands in his fur. He struggled, lost and confused, caught between horror and fear and a kind of strange pity ... but none of it could hold, against her. None save the terror, of course. Sorka always inspired that in him.

"Don't worry, little rat," she crooned, bouncing him up into her arms like he weighed nothing, which admittedly was close to the truth. "Don't worry. I'll not take your virtue!" _Eh?_ But then she set him on his feet and took his paw firmly. Too firmly, really, but he wasn't about to complain, not in the face of this fey mood. No knowing what she'd take into her head to do, in a mood like this. She might ... _kneel?_

He gaped at her, sensing her sudden decrease in height, sensing through her hand how she didn't bend at the waist, leaving only the knees, except that couldn't possibly be the case, and then ... she kissed his paw, very gently compared to her brutal grip, and promised ... "I'll leave your Jan alone, then, Sebastien. Leave his Mamma Molly, too, unless she attacks me first. I promise."

He stayed very still, almost afraid that it was some strange trick of his mind, some hallucination where he'd added the wrong potion to his tea, some trickster mixing up his vials on him ... but no. No hands so slender could crush his like that, no laugh be so cold and so warm at the same time, no scent so dark and seductive. Only Sorka.

She was laughing as she left him, after she'd sealed her promise in her own inimitable fashion, leaving him with legs that didn't quite work and paws that couldn't quite stop trembling, and as she closed the door she tossed back a little thought for him. "And little doctor rat? Will you 'threaten' Molly, too?"

At which point his legs stopped working altogether, and he began to give serious thought to his loyalty to Jan.


	4. Two Meetings: Molly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jan is probably more trouble than any sane rat can afford.

Someone rang the bell out in the apothecary. Sebastien straightened, putting down the sword he'd been cleaning, and moved to the door. He wasn't nervous. Generally speaking, the nasty people in his life didn't tend to ring the bell. So he wasn't nervous, wasn't even thinking of being nervous, before he walked out and the smell hit him and he had to spend a moment pushing panic down and trying to resist the urge to hide under the counter.

River water and sewer and good stew. Just a hint of spice, and the flatness of flour. Crawling night.

"What can I do for you, Mrs Markos?" he managed, politely, spine stiff and straight and ready for the kind of blow that didn't come physically. Jan had muscle. His grandmother had _power_.

She didn't answer for a long minute. He could feel her eyes on him, feel the weight of her stare, and furiously resisted the shudder that wanted to crawl through him. He was not going to bow before Docklands Molly. Jan was his bloody friend, about the only good one he had, and if she didn't like it she could jump in her own damned stew!

Crawling night, why did all the women in his life have to be terrifying?

"I've been hearing rumors," she said at last, her voice calm and blank and careful. He twitched before he could stop himself, and sensed her bitter little smile of triumph.

"What kind of rumors?" he tried, a poor cover admittedly, but there wasn't much point in trying better. Not with her.

"Oh, nothing much," she said lightly, and he wished for his cane. That tone never meant anything good. "Rumors about a bounty on my grandson. An unofficial bounty, through the mehwet. Enforcers, looking for a name for themselves. That kind of thing. You heard anything about that, Mr Sebastien?"

Well, nothing much he could say to that, was there? "I've heard," he said shortly. "Most of the mehwet's probably heard by now. Why?" She was silent for another little moment, deliberately, trying to frighten him. She was succeeding, but he wasn't about to let it show. Not for her.

"Do you know how _I_ heard about it?" she asked at last, quietly. He twitched, surprised.

"I presumed through your contacts," he answered, honestly baffled. "I hardly expected you to _miss_ it!" Not when it was about a threat to her grandson. Docklands Molly had feelers the breadth of Carogne looking specifically for even a _whisper_ of a threat to Jan, and tended to be ruthless and somewhat spectacular in response to them, no matter which side of the board they came from. She squashed Wekha and Polizei alike in defense of her family, and anyone with a brain in Carogne's underworld knew that.

"Hmm," she murmured, leaning forward on the counter, leaning into his space, causing him to twitch badly and lean back. She studied him for a long minute, looking for signs of ... something. He had no idea what, and had to hope it showed, because whatever she was looking for, he had no idea what it was.

" _Hmm_ what?" he snapped at last, strongly disliking the sensation of being stared at. He always had. He may be a deformed little freak, but he was _not_ a sideshow, and he was _not_ going to be stared at. "For heaven's sake, woman, out with it! Whatever you want, you're going to have to tell me, because I have _no idea what you're looking for!_ "

She stared at him for another minute, and he was close, so very close, to actual violent action, when she suddenly reached out and seized his wrist. He froze, his other paw gripping her wrist on pure instinct, his lips pulling back in a snarl of warning, and then she spoke.

"Sorka told me," she said, very quietly, and his knees gave out. He staggered, releasing her arm to grab at the counter, flinching back from her.

"What?" he rasped, horrified. " _What?_ "

"Sorka told me," she repeated, slowly and carefully. "She told me a lot of things, actually. Came by to see me just so she could." He flinched, his paw fluttering in the air between them, panicking as she went on, implacable. "Want to know what she said, little doctor?"

He shook his head before he thought, because it couldn't be good, it _wouldn't_ be good, and crawling night, was she going to have him killed? Because she could, and would, if Sorka had said ... Sorka wouldn't say. Would she? She was mad, in all senses of the word, and she was in a fey mood after promising not to touch them, but even she wouldn't take revenge this way, would she?

He shrank a little. It was Sorka. _Of course_ she would.

"What did she say?" he whispered, small and afraid and proud enough to raise his chin when he said it, proud enough to angle his head so his blind eyes were facing her. Her paw tightened over his wrist, briefly, almost soothingly, and he gripped the counter to hold himself up.

"She told me there was a bounty out on my grandson. She told me she had planned to kill me so she could clear the way for it." He jerked, but she held him tight, and kept going. "She told me how she planned to do it. How she planned to kill Jan afterwards. She told me this, doctor. To my face, she told me how she planned to destroy my family, how she was going to lure Jan into the sewers with you, how she was going to cut his throat in the dark like a _feral_ , how she was going to carry his head to the mehwet after. She _told me this_."

He stood very still, trembling a little, half in fear and half in stupefied reaction to the threat to Jan. Because he could feel it, could hear it happening in his head, hear the bewildered tone in Jan's voice as he followed him, hear the shock when Sorka arrived, hear the terrible gurgle as blood filled his friend's throat ... He was shaking. He was shaking against the counter, leaning all his weight on it, because he could imagine it all too clearly, because he knew the sound, the _exact_ sound Jan would make as he died, and the thought of it put a ball of white fire in his belly and a clawing, desperate thing in his throat. He felt sick. He felt more than sick. He felt _furious_.

"She will _not_ ," he heard himself growl. "She will not! Night and riverdank, she will _never_ touch him!" He shook under her hand, wanting to pull away, to gesture, to promise and make it clear, because _gottverdammt_ but Jan was his _friend_ , he was _his_ , and Sorka would kill him before he let her use him for that! He would ...

"I know," Molly Markos said, quietly, and he stopped, stupidly, wiping at his ear with his free paw.

"What?" he asked, at last.

"I know," she repeated, gently, and he recoiled in raw shock, because Docklands Molly was never gentle, not with him, because she hated him and had never hesitated to let him know, and he didn't believe what he had just heard. He didn't believe it.

"What?" he said again, dumbly.

"She told me," Molly explained. "She let me get riled up, let me get so mad I wanted to strangle her then and there, rip her apart with my bare hands ... and then she told me. She told me you had stopped her. Told me you had forbidden her to touch Jan, had even _threatened_ her if she dared." The was something like admiration in her voice, and he shook his head stupidly, confused. "She told me you told her not to touch me, either." She stopped at that, paused for a moment, and when she started again there was almost a touch of uncertainty in her voice. "Why?" she asked.

He shook his head, too bewildered to even understand what she was asking. "What?" he whispered, and he realised that he was being an idiot, realised that he needed to find another word to be able to say, but he simply had no idea what was going on.

"Why did you forbid her to touch me?" Molly repeated, patiently. "You don't like me, doctor. I don't like you. We have never pretended otherwise. Why protect me, then?"

He twitched a little, coming back to himself, enough to wonder at her idiocy. "Why do you _think?_ " he snapped. "Without you, Jan hasn't a hope! The Wekha would eat him alive, and the Polizei would throw him to them without a second thought! Without you to keep the mehwet in line ..." Without her, Sorka and the like, not to mention Jan's supposed colleagues in the Polizei, would kill him without a second thought. And Sebastien was not about to let that happen. Didn't she realise that? Didn't she realise that while he'd happily drop her in a vat of her own stew, he would never, _never_ allow Jan to be hurt while he could help it. Even if it meant helping her.

She was silent again, which worried him, quite aside from seriously getting on his nerves, and he wished she'd stop. Just _say_ something, strike him, call her goons, whatever, just so it was done. She'd given him enough damn frights for one evening, and he badly wanted her gone, wanted her out of here, so he could sit down and shake for a little while in peace. But she didn't leave.

"You know, I did think it might be some ploy on your part, doctor," she said quietly, coldly. "That you sent Sorka, made a little threat. Or wanted me to owe you, wanted something to hold over my head. One of those games of favours you're so very good at." He stiffened, furious, because although he'd pay quite a lot in blood and favours to have her owe him that way, he would never use Jan to do it, but then she was speaking again, and he couldn't even open his mouth. "But I should have known. I should have known. Jan doesn't call people friends who'd do that. He's not so stupid as all that. And I should have known it. I should have known there was a reason he trusted you."

"There is," he snapped, defensive and almost afraid, because if Jan trusted him than Jan was really a lost cause. You didn't just _trust_ people like him! "He's a suicidal _idiot_ , couldn't you tell?"

She slapped him, one sharp burst across his cheek, and he staggered, tasting blood in his mouth where he'd bitten his cheek. He raised a paw to his face, stunned.

"You don't talk about him like that," she said calmly. "Jan is a better friend, a better person, than you could ever hope to deserve. He's not like you. That makes him honest, not a idiot. Understood?"

He said nothing, glaring at her, because that was too much, too far, and he had a longstanding and quite understandable hatred for people who hit him and spoke to him with that kind of contempt. He knew what he was, thank you, knew very well his own myriad flaws, and while he might agree with her that Jan was a far better person than he, she had no right to say so, no right at all. And though she could threaten him, though she could hit him and get away with it, squeeze his wrist and keep him close to her, he had his own weapons, and not even Molly Markos was immune to the chill of his furious, eyeless glare, the white gleam of his left eye and the ruin of his right.

She let go of his wrist, pulling back and whispering softly in apology. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

"Yes," he agreed, chillingly, holding his wrist gingerly, icy with offended pride. "It was." She backed off, standing straight from the counter, pulling all the way out of his space. It wasn't much of an apology, but he had learned some time ago to take what he could get. "Now if you don't mind ..." Meaningful, cold. He needed her to leave.

"Of course," she said, soft and with genuine shame. "Of course. But ... doctor?"

He stiffened even further, almost painfully, and snarled at her. " _What?_ "

She didn't comment on the harshness of his voice, hid her contempt as she turned away and headed back through the shop, only to pause as she reached the door, turning back to him long enough to say: "I do owe you, doctor. I owe you."

And then she left, and he had no idea what he was meant to do next.


	5. Gratitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jan is, however, very much worth the trouble he brings. And is also not nearly so harmless as he appears.

He was reorganising stock, this time, when the bell over the door tinkled. Not polishing a weapon. And this time, still rattled after the last, he made sure to go and _get_ one. So he was standing in his office with a sword-cane in paw, looking chill and determined, when he sensed a head peep around the door, and Jan's bemused voice filled the room.

"Sebastien? Are you alright?"

Alright? He coughed back a vaguely hysterical snicker. Alright? Given that he'd just been interrogated by Docklands Molly herself? Given that he'd just almost been killed because of Sorka's warped sense of humour and fair play? No. He didn't really think 'alright' covered it.

"I'm fine, Jan," he growled, turning away from the door to rest his cane back in its little niche under the counter, deliberately not stiffening as he felt the large form of his friend move into the room behind him. Jan puttered over to his side, a looming shape against his senses, and Sebastien could feel the weight of his eyes on his back. He did his best to ignore it, staying resolutely silent until Jan would tell him what he wanted.

"No," the boy said at last, still looking down at him. "I don't think you are. Did ... did my grandmother hurt you?"

Sebastien froze, fear trickling up his spine, and a distant anger in his chest. Damn the Markos', anyway. "What makes you say that?" he asked softly, coldly, and flinched when Jan laid a gentle paw on his shoulder.

"Sebastien, did she hurt you?" Soft and relentless, and there were times when Sebastien honestly forgot just how stubborn the young idiot could be, until reminded. "Did ... did any of them hurt you?"

" _Them?_ " Sebastien tilted his head up hurriedly. "What 'them', Jan? Who have you been listening to?" If the blasted fool had been talking to Wekha about this, wearing that pretty Polizei uniform of his ... _Gottverdamnt_ , did the idiot have no sense at all! "Who have you been talking to!"

Jan was silent for a minute, just watching him while he all but vibrated in place, paw still calm and steady on his shoulder. He stayed quiet long enough for Sebastien to start thinking about violently prompting him, before answering in a calm, measured and _measuring_ voice that had little parts of Sebastien's hind-brain quivering.

"Isaac. I've been talking to Isaac."

And alright, but that was just baffling. What the hell had the courier-bat got to do with any of this? Sebastien came down out of his fury, bewildered. "Isaac? Why the hell were you talking to Isaac about me?" The bat _never_ talked about him. From what Sebastien could tell, he did his level best not to _think_ about him. And maybe that was Sebastien's own fault, for overplaying the creepy groping trick the first time they'd met, but it still didn't explain why Isaac would take an interest in him now, of all times.

Jan shifted, gently moving Sebastien with him until they were facing each other squarely, his other paw coming up in order to hold both of Sebastien's shoulders. The gesture should have been threatening, quelling, but instead it seemed meant to steady, to reassure. Sebastien twitched his nose in confusion.

"He was listening, the night Miss Sorka came to talk to Grandma," Jan told him, gently, and Sebastien started badly in his paws. "He had a delivery, but heard Sorka's voice and, well ..." Sebastien could hear the rueful tone. "He thought it better not to draw attention to himself."

"Good idea," Sebastien heard himself comment, faintly. Very good idea indeed.

Jan shuffled a bit, the humour coming out again. "He thought so." Then serious again. "He listened, and came to tell me. He thought maybe I should know that my life was in danger." And there might have been just a _hint_ of censure, there. Just a hint.

"I would have told you," Sebastien said stiffly. _In about a million years or so._ "If I thought they were coming for you properly, I would have told you."

"Of course," Jan smiled. Sebastien could _hear_ it. "Of course you would, Sebastien."

"Believe it, or don't, it's the truth," he snarled, shaking free of Jan's paws. A small part of him was amazed, and more than a little worried, by the depth of hurt he suddenly felt. After all, how many times had he said Jan was an idiot for trusting him? He should be happy the boy seemed to finally have listened. He straightened his spine, turning to move away from the oaf altogether, when a heavy paw caught his wrist, and Jan's soft voice stopped him.

"I do believe you, Sebastien," he said, nothing but quiet honesty in his voice, nothing but gentle confidence. "I know you wouldn't let me be killed without warning me. I know that."

Sebastien froze, quivering. Oh hell. _Don't say that like you really mean it, boy. Don't_ ... One of these days, he was going to get his stupid, traitorous instincts to actually agree on how he felt for this boy, what he wanted from him. Well. No. One day, he was going to get his stupid heart to shut up, and let his instincts keep the idiot alive regardless of the cost to this strange friendship they had. One day.

"I don't," he said, quietly. "I don't, Jan. You shouldn't ..."

"Shouldn't what?" the boy asked, standing close. "Shouldn't trust you? Shouldn't count on you to protect me, to make the most feared Enforcer in Carogne back off and promise not to hurt me? Shouldn't trust that you'll put aside the hate you have for my grandmother to help me? Shouldn't believe that you'll warn me when the time comes? Is that what I shouldn't do? Sebastien?"

"Yes," he whispered, bowing his head, curling his tail in tight. "You shouldn't, Jan. Just because ... just because I might have done it this time, doesn't mean ..." Didn't mean. Couldn't mean. It worked, this once, but it wouldn't always, and didn't Jan know, didn't he _know_ , that Sebastien wasn't strong enough for these games any more, couldn't play them forever? And one day the risk would be too great, the cost of protecting both himself _and_ Jan would be too high, and then ... "You can't trust me, Jan. You can't. I'm not ..." he trailed off, words breaking, trying to articulate all that he wasn't, all that this young idiot deserved that he couldn't give. He trailed off, and in the wake of it Jan was quiet. But only for a moment.

"Sebastien," the great idiot said, so very gently, kneeling down so that he didn't dwarf the smaller rat, so that there would be no threat in this, none at all. "I know, Sebastien. I know. It's alright." And then, he reached out to take Sebastien's paw, to tug it forward and gently guide it up, to touch ... the shell of an ear, where someone had once ripped out a healthy chunk, and lower, while Sebastien frowned, to graze along ribs marred by a great scar, to brush the knotted tissue of a stab wound in one shoulder, beneath his coat.

The doctor frowned. "What ...?"

"When I left the mehwet," Jan answered, softly. "When I joined die Polizei and seemed to betray everything my family stood for. I knew what I was doing, Sebastien. I knew I'd get hurt for it. I never thought I'd be safe, after that, never believed there wouldn't be consequences." He moved his head, maybe smiled, a little. "I'm not completely stupid, you know." A wealth of humour in the tone.

"I didn't ... I didn't think ..." Sebastien stammered, unnerved. He had. He _had_ thought. Jan had _let_ him think. And how scary was that? What else had the boy let him think, let him believe?

"Of course you didn't," Jan smiled. "Sebastien. I know what's out there. I know what could come for me." Serious, so serious. "I did what I did _because_ of that, Sebastien. Because there were people who hurt others like that, people who made others afraid, and as long as the Wekha and the Polizei were stuck in their own little wars, no-one was ever going to try and change that. And I couldn't ... I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't let people like ... people like you ... keep getting hurt, getting used, while we ... I couldn't do it. And I knew, I did know, that I would get hurt for trying to change it. I always knew."

Sebastien shook his head, dazed, leaning in to the younger rat on stupified instinct. "What ... why ..." He took a steadying breath. "Why are you telling me this, Jan? Do you want ... I can't promise ... I won't promise to protect you, I can't, but I won't promise _not_ to, either ..." He couldn't. He couldn't promise not to try and keep the boy from more scars, from more pain. He couldn't promise not to feel stupidly guilty for not having been there to at least patch up the ones he already had, either, but since he didn't understand that _himself_ , he had no chance of explaining it to Jan ...

"I'm telling you this so you know you don't _have_ to," Jan whispered, gently, sadly, reaching out to trace the line above Sebastien's left eye where he'd been bleeding when they first met. "I'm telling you this so you won't think you have to let people like Miss Sorka or Grandma hurt you, just for me. You shouldn't ... I'm a big stupid rat, Sebastien. A lunk-headed Polizei goon who's been in his share of fights. You ... you don't have to look after me. I always knew I was going to get hurt for this. You don't have to try and stop it."

He stopped, shaking, something strange in the way he felt, something Sebastien couldn't figure out, couldn't grasp ... and then he leaned forward, leaned in, and gathered Sebastien up into the most hesitant, trembling hug he'd ever given, the most fragile Sebastien had ever known him. Sebastien froze, rigid, not knowing what to do.

"I don't want you to get hurt for me," Jan whispered, raggedly, against his ear. "I don't want anyone to hurt you at all, Sebastien, but if they did, and it was for me, I ... I don't know what I'd do. I don't know. And ..." He stopped, shaking, and gave a little laugh. "And I feel stupid for saying it, too, because when Isaac told me, what Sorka said, what you did ... I felt so warm, Sebastien! I felt warm and stupid, and I wanted ... I never thought anyone else might look out for me, the way Grandma does. I never thought I'd have someone like you ..."

I didn't either, Sebastien thought, distantly. I never thought I'd have someone like you either. What a pair of fools we are, too. He shook his head, remembering himself enough to reach out in his turn, to wrap his arms around the bulk of his friend, his young idiot of a friend, and hold him in return.

"Thank you, Sebastien," Jan whispered, wetly, strangely laughing. "Thanks for looking after me. For trying. Thank you."

"You're welcome," he whispered back. _I haven't the first clue what I did, but you are welcome. My friend._ "And ... Jan?" He waited until he felt the younger rat raise his head, waiting until he knew he was looking at him. "Thank you, too." He smiled lopsidedly. "No-one's ever tried to ask me not to help them, before. Not for my own sake, at least. Thank you. For trying."

Not that he'd ever let the boy actually _succeed_ in warning him off, in wandering around the city with only his own stubbornness and his bitch of a grandmother to look after him. Not that he'd ever let Jan actually protect him at the cost of himself. But he was grateful that the boy would try.

He always would be.


	6. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some enemies, though, have nothing to do with Jan, and everything to do with what Sebastien used to be. And to _those_ enemies, Jan is as much a tool as Sebastien.

The bell tinkled warningly, announcing a presence in the apothecary. Sebastien tilted his head warily from behind the counter, scenting the air when the intruder remained silent, tasting the shape of him in the way it flowed. There was something ... ah.

"How may I help you, my lord?" he asked, coming around the counter to bow obsequiously, his paws twitching in a nervous, dry-washing little motion. Bow and scrape, little rat. Bow and scrape.

A rich, warm chuckle greeted his gesture, and the presence before him came forward, looming a little over him. Riverdank, the bastard was almost as tall as Jan! "What makes you think I'm a lord, Herr Doctor?"

Well, that voice for a start, Sebastien muttered to himself. Did the rat think they got such cultured tones down here, this close to the docks? Not likely. Not in a native, anyway. But he smiled greasily anyway, and dipped his head in sheepish chagrin. "Your forgiveness, sir, if I presumed. It is simply that most of my customers do not smell quite so ... clean." Perfume was a common enough scent, true, but soap? Not quite.

Another laugh, warm and round. A big chest, and decent lung capacity, Sebastien thought. Not here for an illness, unless it was something creeping. But then, he rather suspected the aristocrat wasn't here for his services as a _doctor_ at all.

"Quite so!" the stranger rumbled, apparently quite happy with the assessment. So not incognito, then. That meant one of two things, in Sebastien's experience. Either the rat was unimportant enough not to be targeted, or important enough to be sure he wouldn't be touched. Foreigner or Family. Somehow, he suspected the latter.

"What can I do for you, my lord? You're not ill, I hope?" he asked again, feeling his spine curve on instinct, dipping lower in the highborn's presence. A small chuckle from above him. The rat found his subservience amusing.

"No, little doctor, I am not ill!" Booming cheer. Sebastien nearly winced, resisting the urge to defend his ears. "But I've heard a lot about you, mein freund, and it was mentioned a number of times that you have ... exceptionally clever paws?"

Sebastien almost stood upright in confusion. Paws? The rat wanted him for ... No. Surely not. Never in all his list of services and favours had _that_ ever come up. Well, unless you counted Sorka, but that was something _entirely_ different ... "Sir?" he squeaked, befuddled and somewhat alarmed. Not that he'd _refuse_ , exactly, given the rat's undoubted power, and not that he hadn't done it before, but ...

"Did I say something wrong?" And that could have been a warning, if the rat had wanted, but there was genuine confusion there, and then, suddenly, the highborn seemed to catch on. "Oh! No, Herr Doctor, I assure you. I did not mean ..." A rueful chuckle. "No, sir. I do not wish that from you. I had merely heard that you were very good at finding aches, in the muscles? My back has been paining me for some time, and I wondered ..."

Sebastien relaxed. A massage. Well, he was very, very good at them, it was true, and more than a few of his customers had found that out. Sensitive paws, and an acute awareness of touch had served him very well in his life. Not so bad, then.

"Certainly, my lord," he murmured, letting the rat see his relief. No harm in that, after all. "Would you like to follow me, or do you prefer to come at a later time?"

"Oh, immediately, if it's not too much trouble," came the reply, and that _was_ a warning, but hardly unexpected. Money got you preferential treatment, after all. Especially in Carogne. Sebastien nodded quickly in acknowledgement.

He led the highborn into the surgery, taking care to flip the sign on the door in warning, something he rarely did, but this was the _last_ customer he wanted Sorka or the Wekha to walk in on. Oh, so very bad, that would be. The stranger, completely unconcerned, lost no time in settling himself on the table, a rustle of cloth announcing that he'd already started to disrobe. Sebastien hurried to his side to take the shirt and coat, feeling as he did the smooth slide of silk, and the prickle of embroidery on rich, heavy linen. Oh yes. Money in spades, this one.

"Do you prefer to sit or lie, my lord?" he asked, moving to the other side of the table, and the stool ready for him to clamber up. He sensed a motion in the air beside him, flinching a little before he thought, but nothing happened. After a second, he realised it must have been a shrug, or some other noncommittal gesture. "Easier for the shoulders if you sit, easier for the rest if you lie," he explained gently, conscious that some of his customers were never comfortable lying down in his presence. Too much at another's mercy for their pride to bear, or their nerves. He didn't know if that would apply, to a highborn of such obvious power, but there was something ...

"Sitting, then," the rat said, calm and amused, but Sebastien nodded to himself. Wary, with a stranger. This high-born was not so foolish as he seemed.

"As you wish," he commented neutrally, already in place behind the larger rat. He already had a sense of him, from so close a proximity, a quick sketch of dimensions, bulk and flavour. He really did smell very clean, this rat. "I'm going to start, my lord?" he asked, paws hovering over the shoulders, not touching without permission. Fast way to lose fingers, that. Then the rat moved, a murmured affirmative, and he lowered them to their work.

Taut, was his first impression, with a little murmur from the doctor part of his brain that no wonder it was paining the bigger rat. Tension sang in those muscles, corded ropes that almost hummed under his fingers, and it took him a second before he realised, took him a moment of kneading before it struck him. Two things. The first was that not all those ropes were muscle. Some of them were scars, and not the kind you get in a fight. And the second was that the tension was following his paws, not moving away from them.

The stranger was afraid of his touch.

He went still, paws going silent in the rat's fur, any number of panicked observations suddenly crying for attention on the heels of that realisation. There were any number of people who had cause to be afraid of him, in this city. And plenty more who thought his reputation enough of a reason in itself. But none of them were aristocrats, who could have him killed on a whim. And none of them, not one, who would choose to come here and subject themselves to his touch if they feared him so. Not without very, very good cause. And while it was more than polite, and prudent, to keep names out of the mix when dealing with back-street doctors and high-up customers ... suddenly he rather thought he needed to know.

"Who are you?" he whispered, harsh and nervous, his paws clenching slightly in the stranger's fur. "What do you really want, _my lord?_ "

Silence, for a moment. The rat was still beneath his paws, tense and near trembling, those scars prominent to his touch, but calm. Controlled. Any violence in him, any threat that sprang up in reaction to the fear, was ruthlessly leashed inside this rat. And Sebastien recognised that. He recognised it well. It takes a lot of practice to know when to grant someone else your fear, and not let them know how strong you can be when pushed. A lot of practice, and a certain kind of fear.

"I know who you are," the stranger murmured eventually, his voice soft and neutral, bland. "There are only so many blind rat doctors in Carogne, after all. Only so many of an age ... to have known my father."

Sebastien couldn't stop the flinch, the tremble in his paws that he knew the other rat had to feel. "F ... father?" he whispered, but he knew. Already, he knew.

"Graf von Caprara," was the quiet, steady answer. "Though I believe most people knew him as 'The General'."

Slowly, carefully, numb behind the shock, Sebastien lifted his paws away from the rat's back. He thought of blades, hidden close at hand, thought of poisons even closer, but already there was a little voice in his mind, an old voice, whispering. You don't touch the General, _mischling_. You don't have the _right_. Didn't I teach you that? So quickly, did that voice spring forth. The General had trained him well, all those years ago.

"I've heard stories about you, you know," said the General's son. "I've been listening. Out here. There's not many with the ... gift, shall we say ... to maintain so precarious a position between the Polizei and the Wekha. Not many who could sustain an association with one of most feared Enforcers in Carogne _and_ one of the most recognised Polizei officers. No. There are very few able to do that. And even less who would _want_ to. Not unless they had a very good reason for not wanting to cement loyalty to any one group. Not unless ... they already had an idea of what could come from that." His voice was almost gentle, there. Almost sad.

"What do you _want?_ " Sebastien whispered again, almost a hiss, harsh and vicious and terrified. His ears were ringing. He thought he might fall over. Just collapse. How was one supposed to react, when the ghosts of the past came calling? Oh. Yes. "I won't ... I will not go back! I will _not_."

"No, you won't," his tormentor acknowledged, with just the faintest edge. "You don't want to, and I can't force you. I've seen what happens to people who force you, Sebastien. I know what you can do."

A pained laugh, nearing hysteria. "What _I_ can do?" he gasped. "No, my lord. Sorka won't challenge you. There's no favour in the world big enough to encompass that war!"

"I didn't say Sorka." Soft, reproving. And deeper again, frightened. Worried. "I know what you did, Sebastien. I know it had to be you. Only one person knew enough, was close enough, and had that special _gift_ of yours. To trade little favours. To make little people do little things, that can have no effect on the grand scheme. Like get you a loan of a friend's dagger, for example, and get it back to him when you're done? Like tell you where the General might go on patrol? Like have a few Wekha friends congregate in a certain location at a certain time?"

"I ... I don't ..." Sebastien tried, but his mouth was dry, and that soft, warm voice was relentless. Funny. It sounded nothing like the father's, but somehow managed to be far more frightening.

"No-one else knows, of course. Who'd suspect the blind torturer, always kept helpless at my father's side? You weren't even allowed to treat him, after all! You couldn't have been the one to poison him." A pause, thoughtful. "And you weren't, were you? Yours wasn't the paw that stabbed him, in the end. But maybe, just maybe ... it was the paw that put the poison on the blade. Maybe. What do you think?"

"I don't ... you can't ..." he stuttered, paralysed for a terrible moment in something deeper than fear. Good morning, good morning, the General said ... But no! No, this was not the General! This was someone who feared him, someone he could ... And even the General, in the end. He wasn't helpless, no matter what the voices in his head whispered.

"You can't prove anything," he said at last, soft and harsh. "There's no-one left to prove it _to_. And I will not go back, General's son. I won't."

"I know." And now there was humour in that cultured voice, and a warm regret. "I wouldn't ask you to. I'm not that suicidal." A low rumble of laughter, calm and warm once more. "I ... You will not believe this, Herr Doctor. I know you won't. But I mean you no harm. I only wanted to know if you were the one. If you'd killed him. And I think, proof or no proof ... I think I can know that, now."

"Why?" Sebastien whispered. "Why do you want to know that, if you don't intend to act on it?"

A deeper laugh, this time, and a crueler edge to the humour, an edge he recognised, for all it was a pale echo of the original. The voice was different, so very different, and the General would have hurt him already, were he here, would have done a great deal more than laugh, but still. There was something in this rat that was undoubtedly his father's son.

"I never said I didn't intend to act on it, mein freund," said the General's son. "I only said I didn't mean to harm you. Believe me ... there's a lot I can do with you besides that. A lot that I _want_ to do with you. And a lot, maybe, that _you_ will want me to do." A deep chuckle, a thoughtful pause. "You are good at trading favours, after all. And what I have in mind ..."

Sebastien shook his head, his paws gripping the table as the other rat stood up, clenching tight around the padded wood. "No," he said. "No. One does not _trade_ with the General. I learned that the first time. One gives, and hopes he doesn't take more than he's already promised he will. But he does. He always does." A pained whisper, trailing off, before he remembered himself, straightening, vicious. "I learned my lesson with your father, General's son. If you want something from me, you'll have to take it outright, and pay the price!"

A long, thoughtful pause, as the taller rat stood opposite him, looming over him. "And ... there is nothing I can do to change your mind?" Said innocently, too innocently. Sebastien felt himself tense. "No favour I might offer? To look after a friend, say, who falls under my charge?"

"No," Sebastien whispered, sick. " _No!_ " Polizei. Highborn to the Families, and there was only one of Sebastien's friends that might fall 'under his charge'. Only one at risk, and Sebastien had never thought, _never_ thought, that one day that risk might be because of him.

"But he might need it, you know. He's a good officer, a good Polizei, but he is so very young, still. So very vulnerable. Can it really hurt, to have someone highly placed to look after him?"

Sebastien nearly lunged. Nearly sprang, and it took everything he had to lock the impulse down, everything he had not to attack, not to scream a denial, not to beg for his friend's life. It took everything he had, but he managed it. Because those things didn't work. Not with people like this, like the General. Fighting, begging, denying ... none of it. You could only give them what they wanted, while they wanted it, and kill them when they weren't looking. And this one ... this one knew better than to ever look away. Sebastien was not the only one to learn a lesson from the General.

"You said," he whispered, softly. "You said you'd been listening to stories about me. Getting to know my reputation."

"I did," was the quiet reply. No mockery. Almost respectful.

"Then you know." Sebastien drew himself up, quivering and determined. "You know how much I can bear for my own sake. You know that while it's a bad idea, it's acceptable to come after me. I am, after all, in a precarious position, like you said. You know I can be attacked with relative ease."

"It ... may have been mentioned, yes." Oh, Sebastien would _bet_ it had. And a few more things besides ...

"And you will also know," he said, and now he lowered his voice, now it was little more than a hiss, small and bright and deadly. "You know that the only instances where I have struck out, the only times when I have well and truly gone against someone ... have been when they threatened what is mine, when they threatened my friends." The rat was silent, but Sebastien didn't care, coming around the table to move into his space, raising his head to shove its ruin into the bastard's face. "Lots of people know that. But you, General's son. You know something else. You know what I did, once upon a time. Just for myself. You know exactly what I _can_ do, what I could do, what I did. Can you add those things together, General's son? Can you see what I am telling you?"

A long pause, and then, quietly: "I can." Sebastien nodded grimly.

"You want to look after him?" he asked. "Look after my Jan? That's good. That's good, General's son. Because Jan deserves to be looked after. He's a good boy. He wants to help people. Not like you. Not like me. He deserves people to look after him. And you will. You _will_. Not because it gets you what you want. Not out of the goodness of your heart. Not because it will help you control me. But because if you _don't_ , if you hurt him, if you happen, perhaps, to look the other way while _others_ hurt him ... I will show you things I learned long before your father. I will show you things to make what I did to him seem blunt, seem paltry, seem _nice_. I gave him a relatively clean death, all things considered. Touch Jan, and I _promise_ you, yours will not be so pleasant. _Do we understand each other?_ "

He stopped, the breath rattling in his narrow chest, trembling vehemently. Lay the rules now, lay them quick. Make this rat _think_ , make him think very, very hard, before he made any move. Give Jan that much longer. Give himself time to calm, to research, to assess the threat. To gather Jan up and run, if need be. Just a little more time. Just a threat, to buy him that. Please.

Silence, for a very long time, and then, suddenly, there was a paw on Sebastien's shoulder, gentle and sure before he shrugged it violently off, and that warm, aristocratic voice held something else, something Sebastien had no idea how to interpret, no idea how to understand.

Relief. Pride. Triumph.

Compassion.

"We understand each other, Herr Doctor," said the General's son, and it was so gentle Sebastien almost flinched. "We understand each other. And, I hope ... perhaps some day we might do more. Thank you, sir."

"What?" Sebastien asked, blankly, but the rat was already retreating, pausing only long enough to pick up his clothes, and despite his bravado Sebastien wasn't quite willing to challenge his exit. But he did have to know ... "Wait!" he called, and sensed the other rat pause. "Why? What _do_ you want, General's son?"

A pause, and then, brightly, sincerely. "Something my father would never understand, Sebastien. Something, with your help, with people like you, and your friend, I might yet achieve."

That was it, no more, and he left before Sebastien could think what to say. And in his wake ... one very frightened, very confused, and very _determined_ little rat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick introduction to the universe and the cast and the major power blocks, yes? *ducks sheepishly*


End file.
